While he waited for his food, Henry watched as customers who had finished their meals and conversations went up to the counter where the old copper-coated cash register sat. They would pay their bills, chatting with the waitress happily as the register gave a loud ring and the cash drawer pushed outward, exchanging pleasantries with the waitress whose name he heard someone say was Audrey, then walk out with the bell on the spring above the door jingling their departure. When everyone had gone, Audrey brought Henry a cup of coffee and left the pot, smiling but not saying anything, then returned to her work.

Henry spent time taking a little closer look at some of the old photographs hanging on the walls, pictures of hard-working men with hard-working horses. In one of the photos there was a man and a young boy bundled up against the mid winter cold and standing next to a large sled piled high with hay. It reminded Henry of his team back home, Jim and Joe, two big blond Belgians that he and Josh used for feeding in the wintertime. He used a sled much like that one in the picture, too, when there was too much snow to use the pick up truck. The only difference between what Henry fed and what the boys in the photo were feeding was Henry fed small square bales that he and Josh would break open and toss off the sled to the cattle, instead of piling the hay loose on the sled like they did in the picture. The practice of feeding loose hay like that hadn’t happened in years, not since automated hay balers came along.

The smiling redheaded waitress brought Henry his breakfast on a large, white oblong plate. The tenderized rump steak hung slightly off the edge on one side, and the over easy eggs sat on top a massive pile of hash browns on the other. Two pieces of wheat toast, already buttered, were sliced diagonally and sat in between the steak and the pile of hash browns. It was more food than Henry had seen all at once in years and as she sat the plate down in front of him, he couldn’t help but stare at it.

“Everything okay?” She asked, setting a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice next to the plate.

“Yeah,” Henry said without looking up. “It’s a lot of food.”

“Don’t want anyone to go away hungry,” she smiled. “Any hot sauce or anything?”

“No,” Henry looked up and smiled slightly. “I believe this will do.”

“I’ll check back in on you a little bit,” she said already turning. “I’m interested to see how you make out.”

Henry’s eyes were drawn to the glass of orange juice. He reached over, picked it up and held it up in front of his face, staring into the glass and rotating it ever so slightly. For a very long time his life had been filled with dull colors—the pale greens of sage, the browns of leather, tree bark, Hereford cattle and withered grass, the grays of stone, rocks, gravel and pavement. The color emanating from the glass was none of those. It was bright and vibrant and full of life. He wasn’t used to it.